


The Heroes of Port Angeles

by blueeyesandpie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Incorrectly) Assumed Castiel/Meg Masters, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Castiel & Meg Masters Friendship, Castiel Whump, Dean Whump, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Roommates, Secret Identity, Super powers are still relatively new, pray for sammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/pseuds/blueeyesandpie
Summary: Dean's living a totally normal life. You know: drinking coffee, pining after his crime-chasing roommate who can't seem to hold down a job, and catching up on the news. Everything's great, right?Except that what's dead should stay dead, and not every superhuman uses their powers for good.It seems the Hunter still has work to do in Port Angeles after all.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 130
Collections: Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Masquerade





	The Heroes of Port Angeles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deliciousirony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/gifts).



> This is my gift to [deli](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony) for the [Profound Bond](http://discord.profoundbond.net) Masquerade gift exchange. 
> 
> My deepest appreciation to EmiliaOagi for being the best alpha and beta I could have ever asked for for this project. Our conversation and your feedback made this story so much better than it would have been without!

_ Archangel returns? Bank heist aborted by winged hero. _

The photo below the blocky headline is grainy and dark, probably taken with a bystander’s cell phone, but even so, the contents are crystal clear: A person in a long coat or robe floats high above, the lights beyond masked by dark wings so wide they nearly brush the buildings to either side of the wide boulevard. The figure is holding what looks like a silver blade in one hand, but more importantly the damn ‘hero’s’ eyes are  _ glowing _ , twin points of light against shadows that completely obliterate any chance of seeing their face.

Dean scans the accompanying article as he waits for his coffee. It’s frustrating to see Archangel resurface, but the writer did a phenomenal job of jamming all the relevant information in despite the short turn between the incident and print deadline. 

The aforementioned writer interrupts his reading by stumbling into the kitchen in a bleary haze, a pair of loose, gray yoga pants the only thing keeping him decent. His hair is standing on end and he’s rubbing at his be-stubbled jaw as he grumbles an incoherent greeting, but the miles of exposed skin invading Dean’s senses temporarily rob him of any response. 

Even half-asleep and barely coherent, Cas is frigging beautiful. Perhaps he’s specifically more attractive in that state, when his thoughts aren’t hidden behind deadpan wit and five layers of misfit clothing. Dean gives himself two whole breaths to drink in the sight before forcing his gaze back to the mug in his hands. 

Roommates. They’re just roommates. As far as Cas knows, Dean’s as straight as a ruler and that’s just how it is. That’s how it  _ has  _ to be. Besides, Cas has an absolute demon of a girlfriend named Meg and Dean doubts she’d appreciate her guy being eyed up by the one person who shouldn’t be a threat to their relationship. 

His churning thoughts are cut short when he realizes Cas is fumbling around on the counter with blind, albeit dogged, intent. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to figure out what he’s looking for, though Cas is clearly struggling to remember the layout of the kitchen they’ve shared for seven years. 

“Here ya go, Grumpy,” Dean says, swiping Cas’s favorite cup out of the cupboard and filling it with coffee. He hands it over, then glances at the clock on the wall. “Aren’t you supposed to be-”

Cas flips his hand up in a universal sign for silence as he drinks. Dean winces—that shit is  _ hot _ —but his friend hardly seems to notice.

“At work,” Cas says a few seconds later. He already looks better, the sparkle returning to his blue eyes. “About thirty minutes ago, yes. Shurley already called me in a panic and I told him to fuck off.”

“You’re gonna get yourself fired, buddy.” Dean observes in a neutral tone. The news outlets in the area find Castiel’s daily habits much less endearing than Dean does; this wouldn’t be the first time his friend’s been given a pink slip for sleeping late. Financially they’ll be fine if it happens again, but he worries a little about his friend’s career options if he burns this bridge.

“Then I’ll go freelance.” Cas drops a bagel in the toaster with a nonchalant shrug. “I was asking around last night; if I were independent they’d have paid  _ three times  _ as much for this  _ and _ I would have had more freedom on structure.” He slaps the paper against Dean’s chest as he turns to the fridge. 

“Dude, you know I’ll support you in whatever you do,” and damn, that came out a lot more earnest than Dean had intended, “but you  _ know _ you just have insanely good luck when it comes to super activity, right? Besides, it’s been six months since you wrote a sentence the Tribune didn’t drag out of you with pincers and a branding iron.”

Castiel peeks over the refrigerator door, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. “How would  _ you _ feel if Bobby made you fix fifty cars a day, to his exact specifications, and ignored your own expertise even when it would have better results?”

Dean opens his mouth, then after a second of thought, closes it with a sheepish grin. The analogy doesn’t quite work, but Cas wouldn’t know that. The intent is clear, however. “Okay, I get it,” Dean says, setting the newspaper aside to reach for his own cup once more. “Freelance it is, but if I have to cover the bills for your broke ass, you do my laundry for a month.”

That chuckle of agreement is entirely too self-satisfied; Dean very nearly throws his roommate’s newly-toasted snack at his head in response. Instead, he sips his drink and contents himself with watching Cas eat. 

-

Later that day, Dean is  alone and staring at a wall covered in information about Archangel. 

The frustrating thing about this particular individual, Dean decides as he focuses on the latest addition to his collection, is that he's never been the hero he's painted to be.

Yes, he was the first in a new line of super-powered humans to make his powers known to the public, effectively paving the way for others like him to take hands-on justice to the streets of every major city on the planet. And sure, he has special abilities that range from the spectral wings he travels with to the bright light the people of Port Angeles had dubbed ‘grace’ that he uses to heal and harm. 

The problem, really, had been the ratio of heal to harm that Dean discovered when he started looking at the facts. 

Three children saved at the cost of dozens of adults—among them the Chief of Police, and the primary witness in a high stakes court case that depended on her live testimony. A murder stopped at the cost of a power outage that allowed a bank’s vault to be emptied without repercussion. There are other such incidents, dozens of them in fact, right up to the moment Archangel disappeared. Every single one had caused more damage than it had resolved, yet somehow the news has never made the connection. Wishful thinking on their part, perhaps.

Dean realizes he’s been following the timeline along the wall when he taps his fingers on a “ _ Where is Archangel? _ ” headline dated eight months prior. By some stroke of cosmic humor, Cas had written that one as well, though at that point he’d been employed by the Times and wrote under the pen name Jimmy. 

There’s a feather pinned against the wall beneath. It’s ghost-white with a touch of gold, and looks deceptively frail despite being nearly three feet long. The thing flickers occasionally, seeming to tremble on the cusp between spirit and reality. Dean runs his finger along the shaft, feeling the hair on his neck stand on end as static shocks travel up his arm. He hadn’t expected it to stay at all, actually, and with this latest incident he’s worried he finally knows why.

Dean reaches for the gun on his desk, tucking it away with mechanical ease. 

Archangel shouldn’t be back.

He strides out of the small room, taking a hard right into a long, dark corridor as the door clicks shut behind him. He’s actually in an access shaft for some vital city function, but for Dean it serves as an underground highway to wherever he wants to be. 

Archangel  _ can’t  _ be back.

Dean pauses at an intersection and cracks his neck. Then he pulls a dark stocking mask over his face and checks his weapons one last time.

_ We may be supers, but this ain’t a comic book,  _ Michael _ ,  _ he thinks as he leaps to catch the bottom rung of the ladder far above his head.  _ I killed your ass, so you stay dead you sorry son of a bitch. _

In minutes he’s emerging into muffled daylight amid a collection of dumpsters. He’s behind a building with a run down bar and a pawn shop on the first floor, and crappy apartments stacked above. There’s also a convenience store with bars in its windows across the street and a few blocks up there’s a junkyard that has seen better days. It’s not exactly an auspicious launchpad, but then Dean’s never considered himself the sort to need a flashy entrance. 

Maybe that’s why he chose flannel over spandex, and his father’s pistol over the futuristic stun-gun crap he’s seen other supers use. The look is certainly cheaper to maintain, and the fact that he never wears the same thing twice makes it particularly easy to blend into a crowd when he needs to. What other super can claim that? 

Dean tugs the metal cover back in place, then makes quick work of the fire escape that will take him to the roof of the brick building. From there it’s simply a matter of running, jumping, and climbing his way uptown as quickly as he can. 

He hears equal shouts of “Hunter!” and “fuck off, hoodlum!” as he goes, and can’t keep himself from laughing.  _ No hero is too great not to be taken for a villain _ , he thinks. 

Except Archangel, of course, who had pulled off the inverse so well the city actually built a statue in his honor.

_ Fuck _ . 

Eventually he gets to the place Cas had so cleverly detailed in his article. It’s been a full day since the attempted robbery, so he’s unsurprised to find the streets cleared and back to business as usual. Well… if “as usual” included a full complement of security guards.

_ Bit late for that,  _ Dean notes from his perch atop a hotel catty-corner to the bank.  _ Ain’t no thief in their right mind will come near you for a month at least. Could guard the place with tin soldiers and golden retrievers and be just fine.  _

He isn’t interested in the bank, either, beyond a cursory wellness check. No, it’s the surroundings he’s there to investigate. 

It’s a fact that every time Archangel “saved” someone, something terrible happened.  _ Every _ time. Yet now, despite Cas’s fantastic eye-witness account, there is no evidence of any such incident. No one died, the criminals are in custody, the bank reported no losses...hell, even traffic is back to normal.  _ So what was the real goal? _

After hours of pointless searching and with paranoia wound to peak levels, Dean finally gives up. The sun is far enough over the horizon that the city is shrouded in dusk; if he doesn’t get home soon, Cas will be calling him and he’s too frustrated to come up with a plausible explanation for his absence. 

He’s leaping between buildings when he feels the air frigging  _ solidify _ around him, then propel him to a roof several blocks over. 

“God damn it,” he growls as he strains against the bonds. “Not now.”

As far as Dean’s aware, he’s the only one who’s found and fought an actual bona fide super _ villain _ . For the most part the newly-discovered supers came to a silent agreement that though they may not agree on the specifics of how it’s meted, justice is justice and they should leave each other alone. 

There are a few outliers, however, their curiosity or judgment too strong for them to simply leave things be. They’re invariably well-intentioned, but annoying as hell, and Dean has no patience for dealing with any of them at the moment. He braces himself for an argument, but to his surprise when he stops, he’s facing someone entirely unfamiliar. 

This super is shorter than he is and curvy—every inch of visible skin is covered in red latex. Her all-black clothes complete the look: leather jacket, tight jeans and combat boots. Above the half-mask disguising her face, she’s grafted (or perhaps they grew there naturally; this superhuman mutation thing manifests in all sorts of odd ways) small horns on her forehead. 

All in all, he can’t help but wonder who has the time or money to decide  _ that _ get up is the best for their job, but to each their own.

“Huh. Most guys who see little old me spend so much time staring at my body they forget I have a face,” she comments in a sing-song voice. “Kudos to you I suppose. Or maybe I’m just not your type?”

He can’t respond so he doesn’t try. The stranger doesn’t seem to require an answer anyway; she sashays toward him, stopping when she’s within arms reach. Dean expects her to remove his mask and braces himself for the nightmare of identification, but she just rakes her eyes over him from head to toe, then squeezes his bicep with appreciative fingers. 

“Damn, I love what super juice does to us.” Her finger trails over his shoulder as she circles him.

“You were creeping around that bank,” she says from behind. Her lips are so close to his ear he can feel her breath when she adds, “why?”

Dean opens his mouth, then blinks, caught by surprise at the movement. He still can’t so much as twitch elsewhere, but his face is free at least. “Blow me,” he says with eloquent grace.

She actually chuckles. “Clarence and I just want to know if you’re sweeping or scoping. He worked too damn hard last night to have Paul Bunyon and Eminem’s love child ruin it.” She yanks his head back at a sharp angle, and he can’t help the gasp of discomfort that escapes his lips. “So just tell me and we can be done here, jackass.” 

Dean scowls at the insult, but after a few more seconds of struggling, he has to accept there’s no way out of this without answering the question. “Sweeping,” he snaps, rude in his frustration. “I just want to know the place is secure. Lotta new supers don’t know to check the perimeter before they peace out.” It’s a reasonable enough explanation, he can only hope she accepts it.

Her grip loosens. “Great! Seeya,  _ Hunter _ . Don’t hurt your pretty little head trying to track me down.” She pinches his cheek with a grin, and for a moment he’s  _ sure _ he knows that smile. The thought is driven entirely out of his mind when her hand lands on his ass. 

A rush of air heralds her departure even as his invisible bonds dissipate. He jogs to the edge of the building and looks down. The stranger’s feet hit the ground a second later; even this far up he can hear the  _ boom _ of impact as she catapults upward once more.

“ _ BITCH! _ ” he yells.

She twists in mid air to flip him the bird. “Oh honey, you have no idea,” she calls, and then she’s gone. 

-

To Dean’s surprise, Cas is on his laptop when he gets home, fingers flying over the keys and a wrinkle threatening to take up permanent residence between his eyebrows as he frowns at the screen. It’s unbearably adorable; Dean feels affection well in his chest as he pauses in the door to take in the whole scene.

“Making progress?” He asks, dropping a pizza on the side table nearest where his friend is seated on the couch.

“Oh my God, I could kiss you,” Cas exclaims, grabbing at the box. 

_ Oh my God, I wish you would _ . Dean doesn’t say that, however, just laughs and shakes his head. “It’s just pizza,” he says. “Not like I saved the city or anything.” 

He could swear something flickers in Cas’s eyes, but a moment later the guy’s shoving pizza in his mouth and babbling, complete with excited gestures, about his day and his latest project. It takes a couple of tries, but Dean gathers that Cas already has a solid idea for a book and the Tribune did in fact boot him off regular staff, but hadn’t closed the door on the idea of freelance work.

“Admit it. You’re just  _ that  _ good,” Dean says with a sly grin, punching Cas gently on the shoulder. 

“Or they’re just that desperate,” Cas says with a dismissive wave. He glances at his screen once more, then shuts it with a decisive  _ click _ . “What about you? How’s Bobby? Haven’t seen Sam in awhile. What’s he been doing?”

Dean is saved from more bald-faced lies to his best friend by the pizza in his mouth. He fake-coughs and pantomimes grabbing a drink to wash it down before heading to the kitchen. 

Once there he falls against the counter, gripping the edge with white-knuckled fingers.  _ I can’t keep doing this _ .

He had chosen Cas as his roommate thinking they’d have so little in common that there would be no questions about his whereabouts. That had been shot to shit the first time Cas gut-laughed at one of his bad jokes, and pretty soon he’d been teaching his adorably awkward new friend how to play video games, taking him to his favorite bars, and even, to Sam’s utter despair, introducing him to his family.

And now? Now it’s all too much. 

Now he cares, but he has to lie to Cas every single damn day. Now every falsehood cuts deeper and he spends hours rehearsing ways to share the truth. What he and Sammy really do. Who Bobby really is. How he got their apartment. The reason Cas had so much luck reporting on supers until Dean killed Archangel. 

The way he feels when he looks at Cas.

The fact that he’d do his damnedest to fetch the moon if his friend asked for it, and the guy has absolutely no fucking idea.

“Dean?” 

Cas’s voice is entirely too close for comfort. Dean hastily opens the fridge and makes a show of digging around. He retrieves two beers, one of which he jabs at Cas, who had just peeked in from the den. “Shoo,” he says, “I’m fine.” He’s thankful for his pretend choking when his voice comes out rough and uneven despite his best efforts. 

_ More lies.  _

“Gotta admit, my day was really boring,” Dean hedges as they settle back at the table. “Got hung up downtown by someone else’s issues, and that’s about as exciting as it got. But hey—I made it back and with pizza no less.” He flashes Cas a wide smile. 

“And Sam?” Cas is working on his second slice even as Dean reaches for his first. His gaze is focused on the food as if it were the most important thing in the world. Perhaps it is; Cas has a bad habit of not eating when he’s caught in a surge of inspiration. Even so, Dean half-wishes he’d look up. 

“He went to New Haven to practice—” he cuts himself off before ‘his weird-ass ability to jack other people’s powers’ emerges. “-for a sale,” he substitutes, hoping Cas didn’t notice the slight hitch. “But I’ll invite him over when he gets back.” Not that he wants to. They’ve hung out before, and he’s not sure which thing he dreads more: the work to make sure their stories stay consistent, or Sam’s teasing later. Maybe he could get a movie playing or something to minimize the chit-chat. 

“That would make me very happy,” Cas says with that adorable crinkle-nosed smile, and oh  _ damn _ Dean takes back his wish for eye contact because as soon as he sees those baby blues he’s lost, drowning entirely, and there’s no super power in the world that could stop the words bubbling out of his heart. 

He prevents categorical disaster by shoving half a slice of pizza in his mouth in one go. Cas hands him the remote with a laugh that’s half disgust and half amusement, and pretty soon the misadventures of Doctor Sexy, M.D. drown out any possibility of unfortunate confessions.

-

After several weeks of watching the super in action, Dean has to admit it seems unlikely that this “Clarence” is actually Archangel. The super says as much to the police and reporters on-scene on several occasions, but words are only as good as the person speaking them, so that alone has little impact on Dean’s opinion. 

It’s the nature of the incidents the man is involved in that seals the deal for Dean. He’s consistently  _ good _ . Not just at hiding from the camera—and damn, he’s got natural talent there—or with his actual abilities, but in his  _ approach  _ to being a super. 

He stops a riot one day by simply corralling the opposing parties into different parts of the city with light. He puts out a fire. Defuses, then destroys, a bomb. Drops criminal after criminal on the steps of the police department, cuffed and hooded with neat photos of their crimes pinned to their chests. 

No one dies.

_ No one dies _ .

Every super, no matter how careful, has caused at least some collateral damage. Dean himself has a shrine to those impacted by his poor decisions in one area of his hideaway, and the guilt will likely follow him for the rest of his life.

Not Clarence. 

Despite the ‘Angel’s’ increasing activity, Dean’s wall of information about him remains depressingly bare of anything that would actually help him identify the guy, predict where he might go next, or arrange a meeting without alerting the public to his intent.

He’s certain the woman who trapped him on the roof is the key to that work, but she also presents a challenge. The only report he’s found about her is directly related to their confrontation; she may as well be a ghost otherwise. After several days without progress, he reluctantly admits that she may have donned a disguise (double disguise? How would that even work in a world where people ran around in masks as a rule?) to speak to him. 

Armed with that theory he goes through all known records of female supers in Port Angeles. Powers tend to come in related groups, and telekinesis and leaping are not generally in the same spectrum, so she should stand out regardless of chosen costume.

Nothing.

As his frustration and curiosity mount, he reminds himself it took months to track down Archangel’s legal identity and it’s only been a few weeks with these two. It might go faster if he touched base with Bobby, but he’d rather gnaw off his own leg than endure the other man’s gruff take on  _ why _ Dean needs answers so much.

The only person he’s been unable to hide his curiosity from is, ironically enough, Cas. His friend picks up on Dean’s interest the first time “Feathers” came up on the evening news, and seems strangely amused by the discovery, making several pointed digs about Dean’s “man-crush” that light the super’s face up like the Fourth of July. 

Unfortunately, freelance life steals Cas away more and more frequently. He flits from place to place, tracking super incidents around the city like some sort of metropolitan storm chaser, then settles into whatever cafe offers the best internet to write up his reports. He’s making good money and seems happy, at least, but Dean misses his friend. 

Meg visits rather often these days as well, a ball of spitfire energy that Dean struggles to endure. It’s not that he  _ dislikes _ Cas’s girlfriend. Under different circumstances, he actually suspects they’d be fantastic drinking buddies. The problem is that  _ she  _ doesn’t seem to like  _ him _ , and makes her low opinion clear any time Cas is out of sight and hearing. He’s just thankful Cas is private about displays of physical affection; if he ever has to walk in on them kissing (or worse), he might actually gouge his eyes out.

Eventually Dean forces himself back out on the streets. He still wants to know who “Clarence” is, but obsessing about him isn’t doing him any favors. If Dean’s approach to conflict shifts a little, who’s to know it’s inspired by the Angel’s activities?

Life takes on a new routine.

Crime rates drop.

Dean dares to relax a little.

-

_ Villains in Port Angeles? Mayor calls for super support. _

Dean nabs the newspaper from the wire rack next to the espresso machine and reads it in one go, rooted to the spot. It’s a long piece; by the time he’s done reading it, the barista’s giving him the “buy it or get out” face. He slaps two bucks down, grabs his now-tepid coffee, and heads into the crisp, late autumn air.

He supposes it’s inevitable that some supers would turn bad. What’s that old saying that plagued the Spider-man franchise before real supers appeared and effectively put the comic book industry out of business? _Ah, yes:_ _with great power, comes great responsibility._ Dean can almost hear his dad saying good going, Uncle Ben, but there are other traits that show up when a person is given power, not all of them are nearly so noble. 

The problem, really, is that Dean’s not terribly well-equipped to face supers-gone-bad on his own. Bullets are only useful if they reach their target (or if their target can take physical damage), and he has nothing at all to protect him against the various mind powers that exist. Sleight of hand, quick wit, and a certain disregard for his own safety had helped him defeat Archangel, but that wasn’t an approach he could count on every time.

He calls Sam, and Sam calls Bobby. Bobby calls in a favor with Ellen, and soon enough every super Dean knows is gathered in the Roadhouse. It’s a risky move. Stupid, even, if any of them have gone dark side, but they don’t exactly have a lot of options.

“Work together?” Ash laughs outright at the proposal. “No way, man. I’m better on my own.” The lights around him flicker in agreement. To Dean’s despair, it seems most of the group feels the same way. Rowena doesn’t even bother to respond to the inquiry; she just slings her bag over her shoulder and disappears.

By the end of the night, it’s down to him, Sam, Bobby, Charlie, and Hannah. Even Ellen had backed away from any kind of alliance commitment, though she was still willing to let them meet in her bar occasionally if they didn’t bring trouble with them. 

Dean waits until they’re back at Bobby’s before he fucking loses it. “The entire goddamn  _ city _ is in danger and those sons of bitches can’t agree to collaborate for two frigging days to stop it? Assholes!” 

“They’ll come around,” Bobby says as he pours them all new drinks. “This Azazel won’t be the last to decide there’s greater profit in villainy.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean says with an eye roll, “that’s  _ real  _ comforting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be, boy,” the older man responds, then downs his drink. “Society’s never seen progress without burning a few bridges first. Get back to work and stay in contact, idjits. The city needs you.” 

Dean drags himself home a few hours later feeling wrung out, frustrated, and utterly exhausted by the day’s events. When he gets there, the lights are out, Cas’s bed is empty, and the same dishes that were on the sink the day before are still there now. Cas is very particular about completing his chores, so the sight takes Dean aback. 

Perhaps he just stayed at Meg’s for the night. It’s not a great thought, but it’s better than anything else Dean can come up with. He comforts himself with another drink, entirely too much pie, and reading the book draft Cas had given him weeks before. 

Cas still hasn’t returned by the next evening, and he’s not answering his phone. Too concerned to care how his concern may be taken, he digs around until he finds Meg’s phone number. He hesitates for a half a second, then jabs the “call” button with a shaking finger.

“Where the hell have you  _ been _ , you dipshit?” 

Dean blinks. Of all the greetings he’d expected when calling his roommate’s girlfriend, that certainly wasn’t it. 

“Uh...working. Hey, Cas hasn’t been home in a day or two, is he with you?” 

“Stay there, I’m heading over.”

The line goes dead, and Dean stares at his phone in confusion for a little too long before he hastens to clean up the evidence of his lonely pity party from the night before. 

Meg arrives in record time, barely waiting for the door to open before pushing past him and making herself at home on the couch. “When did you last see Castiel?” She asks. 

“Two days ago...maybe three?” Dean says, thinking back. 

“And you didn’t think to fucking call me? Maybe let the police know? Christ on a pogo stick, you  _ are _ a moron, Dean Winchester.”

“He’s been gone a lot lately,” Dean says, disliking the defensive edge to his voice. “I can’t exactly call the cops every time he takes a two day staycation at your place.” 

Meg blinks at him, head cocked to the side and mouth partially open, for all the world as if she can’t believe he actually exists. 

“Dean,” she says carefully. “Do you know what Clarence actually does out there?”

-

Dean trips over nothing and nearly falls on his face. He catches himself on the wall, thankfully, and gathers himself to look Meg in the eye. 

“Clarence.” He says, ever the intellectual. 

“You really have no idea. Oh fuck, this is so bad it’s good.” Meg is up again, pacing back and forth in their living room with her hands behind her back. “You are painfully oblivious, you know that? Both of you are. It’s obscene.”

“Meg.” 

“Fuck off, Dean-o, I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that my best friend is in love with an idiot.”  _ Wait, what? _

“ _ Meg _ .” 

“That’s my name.” She whirls around to face him. “What?”

Dean licks his lips. “Are you a super?”

Meg gives him a full body eye roll. “That’s not what you really want to ask. Get to the point, Winchester.”

“Cas isn’t- he can’t-” He can’t get it out. Castiel can’t be a super. He can’t be  _ that _ super. He’s...he’s  _ Cas _ . He’s dorky and soft and gets fired for daydreaming and forgets to sleep when he’s writing, and there’s just  _ no way _ .

“Allow me to introduce you to Castiel Novak, freelance journalist by day, Angel of Thursday by night. He also happens to be the best friend I’ve ever had: a unicorn among donkeys if you ask me. He lives with Dean Winchester, also known as the Hunter, also known as the biggest donkey of them all. Seriously, hunting people is what you  _ do _ . How did you not know you lived with one?”

A lot of things have happened in a very short period of time, but there’s one vital thing Dean needs an answer to. “Does  _ he  _ know?” The thought that Cas  _ knows  _ Dean has been lying to him all this time is unbearable. Never mind that Cas has been lying as well...that’s different somehow, though Dean can’t put a finger on why. 

Meg hesitates, something almost like sympathy flickering over her face. “Yes,” she says softly. “He’s known since I caught you in the city.”

“Son of a  _ bitch _ .” No wonder Cas has been making himself scarce lately. 

“Eloquent as always, I see. Now...I realize that having a panic attack is looking real attractive right about now, but we have more important shit to deal with. Castiel went after Azazel yesterday and I haven’t heard from him since. I was about to come find you when you called.” 

She’s right, total panic is definitely looming on the horizon, but it’s just gonna have to deal. Cas is in danger, and that’s all that matters. 

He gathers the arsenal he has hidden around the house while Meg changes in Cas’s room. It takes much less time than he’d expected, and she laughs at his surprise. 

Less than ten minutes later, they’re on the roof, staring down at the city.

He’s preparing himself for a long trip on foot when Meg grabs his hand, linking their fingers together so tightly he winces. “Hold on tight, lumberjack,” she says with a smirk, and then they’re fucking catapulting upward so fast his vision actually blurs. 

She leaps them across the city with enviable grace, buffering their landings so Dean takes as little damage as possible. If she’d asked he would have told her it wasn’t necessary, but he hadn’t expected her to be so thoughtful. It takes him aback. 

They get through the inner city without incident. Once they’re in the industrial district she shortens her jumps, clearly examining the area for clues as she goes. For some reason Dean can’t grasp, she eventually decides on an old metal structure near the waterfront. It’s a terribly stereotypical place for a villain’s lair, all things considered; if they survive this, Dean will definitely laugh about it with Sam later. 

They hit the broken pavement with a sickening  _ crunch _ , and Dean yelps as his legs dissolve beneath him. He rolls onto his back to find Meg crouched over him, her own version of panic making itself known. “Shit,” she says, reaching for his legs as if she has any hope of helping him. "Dammit, Dean, I thought I could soften the landing, but the force had to go somewhere when we didn’t bounce back. I- I'll find a healer, I swear-"

“Calm down,” he says, reaching up to tap her nose, “I’ll be fine. I regenerate, Meg.  _ That _ is what I really do.” He pushes his mask up to grin at her thinly veiled confusion. “Hunting’s a good facade, don’t you think?”

“You and Clarence really are a match made in hell,” Meg says, sitting back on her heels. “How does he not know?” 

Dean laughs as he pushes himself up. “The same way I didn’t know he’s a super,” he says with a shrug. “We’re good at hiding. Besides...how could he have known what I chose not to share, even if he'd thought to look?"

He bounds to his feet and offers his hand to Meg, who takes it with a grudging smile. 

“Fair, I guess,” she grumbles as she scrambles to her feet. 

"Let's go kick some villain butt," Dean says, and with that, the awkward moment passes. 

-

It’s shockingly easy to pick the lock on a small side door. Inside there’s an office that looks like it hasn’t been used in a year or more, and beyond that, there’s a dark corridor leading into...basically nothing. 

Dean frowns. “Maybe we’re in the wrong place,” he murmurs, pitching his voice so it carries as little as possible. “Should we keep looking?”

“Can you feel Sam when he’s near?” 

_ That’s an odd question.  _ Dean fumbles for an answer, and what he comes up with is, “you asking me to out my brother?”

“Give me a break,” Meg hisses. “I don’t give a flying fuck who your precious Sammy plays on television. Just answer the question.”

“Yes.” 

Meg sighs, the most defeated sound he’s heard from her yet. “We’re in the right place, Dean. Trust me.” 

Dean squints at her as they move forward, turning possibilities over in his mind. “Are you related to Cas?” He asks eventually.

“No.” 

“And not me.”

“Jesus Christ, I hope not.” 

“Is there anyone else with Azazel and Cas?”

“I doubt it. Give it a rest, blondie.”

Dean waits for a while before he licks his lips and ventures his final guess. “Azazel, then.”

Meg doesn’t look back. She doesn’t even miss a step, actually, but her voice is frigid when she speaks. “Azazel is my father. Mention it again and I will personally drop you in the Mariana Trench and cover your grave with a rock so big even your super duper regeneration gives out before it’s worn away by the tide.”

The silence returns for long enough that Dean’s ears start to ring. “My father was an obsessed bastard,” he murmurs when the quiet gets too heavy to tolerate. “He found out about supers a long time ago, before Archangel appeared, you know? He made it his business to put us all in the ground. It never felt quite right to me, so I hauled ass with my brother as soon as we could. When I manifested, I became the Hunter so I could...maybe balance a little of the damage my dad did in his time.” 

Meg doesn’t reply for a long time. They’ve made it nearly down the long corridor before she finally looks back over her shoulder. “You’re not quite the cocky asshole I thought you were,” she says.

“Gee, thanks,” Dean says with a chuckle. “Truce?”

The woman smiles, probably the first real one he’s ever seen from her. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

They pick their way through the building in fairly companionable quiet after that. They’ve taken three turns and picked up the pace when something occurs to Dean. “If you can sense him, he can probably sense you,” he points out. 

“But not  _ you _ ,” she replies with a flash of teeth, “and it won’t occur to him that I would go against him. Not yet.” 

Dean shrugs acceptance, about to reply again, when she holds her hand up. 

“There,” Meg whispers, gesturing at wide double doors barely visible in the gloom ahead. “He’s there.” 

Dean checks his gear, pulls his mask more securely over his face, and slides into the shadows to the side of the door. There’s no way in but through, not that any other way would have made sense given Azazel knows Meg’s coming. His only hope, really, is that he can slip in amid the distraction of Meg’s entrance.

She pokes at the keypad, muttering to herself, then taps in a code. Three tries later, there’s a groaning sound and the two doors part.

Brilliant light streams from the gap between, flooding the hall they’re standing in. Dean throws an arm up to shield his eyes, blinking rapidly through a veil of tears to adjust to the abrupt change. Thankfully he’s still hidden by a pile of crates, but Meg is a black outline against a backdrop of brilliant blue, her shadow cast, deep and long, on the floor behind her. 

“Megara, you came to me.” 

“Yes, Father.” 

Dean creeps to the side, following the doors until they’re completely open. He can’t do anything but concentrate on staying hidden while he’s moving, but his new hiding spot is behind a series of shelves stacked with boxes with just enough space above them for him to peer through.

A deceptively normal-looking man is standing near a cart near the center of the room, holding what appears to be a knife. There’s a metal structure that looks a whole lot like a pentagram just behind him. That alone would be horrible enough, but what gets Dean’s attention is the person bound against the contraption, chains pulled tight against his flesh.

Blood stains Castiel’s skin, his clothes, and the floor beneath him, and his head lolls forward like he’s unconscious, or maybe can’t hold it up anymore. There’s a metal band wrapped around his forehead, with long needles poking straight into his skull. 

Dean had trouble keeping even one of Michael’s feathers in the physical world, but whoever this Azazel is, he’s found a way to do it on a wider scale. The super’s wings are somehow jammed through or around the pentagram rack and pushed up at an awkward angle, held to their full span by evil-looking metal hooks placed every few inches in his spectral flesh.

_ Will he survive this? _

It’s a horrible thought, but Dean can’t afford to get lost in despair.

Meg is arguing with her father, their raised voices echoing around him. He looks, and she has them turned so Azazel is facing away; Dean aims, but before he can fire, a hand grabs his shoulder and pulls him back.

“Hey boys, looks like we have a hero on our hands,” someone comments.

All hell breaks loose.

Dean has often wondered if quick reflexes or minor premonitions were part of his supernatural package, as it were. It certainly seems so in the ensuring scuffle. He should have gone down within minutes, but he fights with everything he has, always seeming to move in time to avoid a fatal strike or dodge a supernatural attack, and for a short time it seems like they might actually win.

Meg is yelling and Azazel is cursing, but there are fists and feet and ice and fire everywhere and he has no time to look after his companion. The fight continues, and Dean realizes Azazel must have called reinforcements, because there are way too many people for him to face alone.

_ I need to move _ . He can’t though, he’s trapped between a shelf and a guy who moves like a frigging snake. He can see the massive blow coming but can’t stop it. All he can do is brace for impact. He feels his ribs crack even as something unbearably hot loops around his ankles and pulls. He goes down, swearing and flailing with his hands. He can’t move his legs, he realizes, and soon enough his left fist is pinned down as well. 

For the first time, Dean wonders if this is how he’s going to die. He can feel his body knitting together again, but before it can fully heal, a boot crashes into his side, knocking the breath out of him and crushing his chest once again. 

_ Fuck _ . 

He’s feet away from the man he was willing to give his life for, and Cas is still going to die. The thought gives him a final burst of energy and he swings upward with his one free hand, catching one of his captors on the jaw with a brass-fortified fist. Fists and feet make acquaintance with his body in retaliation, and eventually all Dean can do is let himself drift. 

Through the shadows trying to claim him, Dean starts to notice new sounds, sense a change in the energy around him. 

He blinks, and he swears he can see Sam standing nearby, a shotgun in his hands. A line of fire streaks through the air, hits his brother—and ceases to exist. Sam fires at someone out of Dean’s vision, then cocks his head as if seeing something surprising before turning away.

Between blows he can hear electrical lines popping, see the blue-purple of Hannah’s deflections, feel the tingle of overloaded electricity in the air. There are other things he can’t explain, visions of things that simply cannot exist, all tinged with gold and accompanied by an amused chuckle that he can’t help but like.

Between blows he notices Azazel has reappeared, one hand around Castiel’s neck and a manic smile on his twisted face. 

He has no time to worry before Meg plummets from above like an avenging angel, her full body weight landing on her father’s shoulders as she lands. It shoves him to the floor and Meg goes after him with mind and body until they’re out of Dean’ sight entirely. 

Eventually the blows slow, then stop, as his attackers make themselves scarce. Everything hurts, but Dean curls his fingers into the floor and pushes himself forward, inch by inch, until he can reach up and put his hand on Cas’s foot.

“Hello, Dean.”

The stupid mask is in the way of them actually seeing each other. He pushes it away impatiently, vaguely aware there’s a tingle starting in his fingers, and twists to look up at Cas. “Hey Cas,” he whispers. “I’ll be fine. You rest, buddy. You’re hurt real bad.” 

“Yes…” Cas’s face is in shadow, but Dean can almost hear him collecting his thoughts. “I...probably won’t…”

“Don’t say that,” Dean interrupts. “You’re gonna live. You’re gonna come home with me and tell me all about how you got those wings, okay? They’re so fucking beautiful. God Cas,  _ you  _ are so amazing, I can’t- I can’t imagine life without you. Wanted to tell you forever. ”

Cas starts to laugh, but it turns into a harsh cough of pain. “Deathbed confessions, Dean?” He whispers. “Always surprising me.” He stops to breath, the sound ragged in his chest. “I love you.” 

“Fuck.” Dean feels wet heat dripping down his cheeks. “Cas, don’t- you’re gonna live. I’m not gonna- you’re not gonna die. I swear.” 

Cas doesn’t respond, and Dean’s fingers scramble over the skin he can reach, searching for a sign of life. He nearly stops breathing himself when he feels a slow...too slow...pulse beneath his fingers.

“Sam,” he tries. It comes out as a croak, so he coughs, swallows, and tries again. “ _ Sammy!”  _ The tingles are spreading. He’s never had to heal this much damage before, he has no idea what to expect next. He has to- has to get-

Sam crouches next to him, one hand on his shoulder. “You fucking moron,” he says in an affectionate tone. “What were you thinking coming in here without backup?” 

“It’s Cas,” Dean says without preamble. “Sam, he’s- he’s not gonna make it.” 

Sam glances up, giving the super tied above them an appraising look. “I’d give him ten minutes maybe,” he admits, a pained expression on his face. “I should probably get him down, actually. Make it easier—”

“Sam.” Dean lets go of Cas to drag his hand down, wrapping it around Sam’s wrist. “I need you to help. You can give him what- what I can do, right?” 

He watches comprehension dawn on his brother’s face. “Dean,  _ no _ . Have you seen what those bastards did to you?  _ You _ would probably die.” 

Dean smiles through the blood in his mouth. “I might die, yeah, but if you don’t, he  _ will _ . We’re supers, Sam. Sometimes we gotta make shit decisions for the greater good, and you know that.  _ Please _ .”

Sam sets his jaw. “I can get Donna.” 

“She can’t help and you know it,” Dean snaps.

“Rowena?”

“Too far away.”

“Damn it, you really love him, don’t you?” 

Dean lacks the energy to respond, just stares at his brother in silent appeal. 

Sam runs a hand through his hair, then shakes his head in weary acceptance. “Fine. If you die, I’m never going to forgive you. You get that, right?” 

“Do what you feel you gotta, bitch,” Dean says with a relieved smile as he relaxes against the floor, “Cas lives, right? That’s what matters. He’s a better super anyway.”

“Christ you’re a jerk.” 

Then Sam’s fingers are pressed against Dean’s forehead, and he can feel the edges of the world getting blurry, a rushing sensation, and a void opening within him that  _ should not be. _ He’s terrified and alone, but the current is unforgiving. 

Everything goes black. 

-

When he opens his eyes, he’s on his back in his own bed. He’s tired and achy, but in a way that means long, solid sleep, rather than lingering injury. There are pillows piled high around him and something warm, solid, and quite large pressed against his side. 

He turns his head to investigate the intrusion, and finds himself with a face full of dark hair and a nose full of the incredible scent of spring rain. 

_ Cas. _

He’s passed out cold on the bed next to Dean, one arm slung over his waist and his head on Dean’s shoulder. He’s on top of the covers, which Dean can’t do anything about. It looks like he’d been reading, however, so Dean pushes the book off the bed and shifts around a little to make Cas more comfortable before he lets his eyes drift shut once more. 

-

Sam’s sitting on the other side of the bed when he opens his eyes again. Cas is asleep again, but he’s wearing different clothes than before so some time must have passed. 

“It worked?” Dean asked cautiously. 

His brother smiles, eyes oddly soft. “You don’t want to know the headache it gave me, dude. The actual, literal, pain in my brain that I suffered is indescribable. But yes, it worked.” He smoothes the blanket over Dean’s shoulder.

“And you thought that ability was useless,” Dean says with a wry smile. 

“I almost lost my brother because of his mule-headed need to save a guy who doesn’t even know he cares,” Sam replies. “It isn’t going to happen again, so make this chance count.” 

“Got it.” Before he can continue, exhaustion creeps up and snatches him away. 

-

The third time he wakes up, he’s staring straight into deep blue eyes resting on the pillow next to his own. Cas is under the covers now and their legs are intertwined. Dean can only hope Sam went home for a while, because if he walks in now he’s going to be scarred for life. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, running his knuckles over Dean’s cheekbone. There’s a world of understanding in those words. _I know you were lying and I forgive you._ _I’m sorry for lying to you._ _I’m glad you’re alive, and thank you. I care, please say you care, too._ It’s so real, so strong, so much of everything Dean has ever dreamed of but never quite dared believe could be his. 

He reaches without thought, slides his hand around the back of Cas’s neck and pulls him closer. Their mouths slot together like they were made that way, simultaneously entirely new and so painfully, beautifully, comfortably familiar. A shiver works its way from Dean’s toes all the way to the top of his skull, and he squeezes Cas closer without meaning to, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, desperate to experience every second of feeling they’d nearly lost forever. 

They break apart and stare at each other in breathless shock, and the hope in Cas’s eyes is too much for Dean to handle. 

“I love you, too,” he blurts before he can second guess himself. 

“I know.” 


End file.
